Between Two Lungs
by Rather Fanciful
Summary: Castiel unexpectedly runs into the Doctor. The two find that they have something in common. Something very important.


Note: Um, implied Dean/Cas? If you squint, implied Rose/Doctor

I don't even know what the hell this is. What I meant to do was write Castiel meeting the Doctor in 1000 words or less. As usual, I failed and ended up with all these feels I don't know what to do with.

* * *

Without a doubt, Castiel has heard of him. The man in the time traveling police box that calls himself _the Doctor_. With his -mostly- female companions and marvelous trips that simultaneously change everything and nothing about time and reality itself. Saving the world numerous times without so much as a thanks or pat on the back. Castiel never guessed he would get a glimpse of the legendary T.A.R.D.I.S, much less meet the man inside, face to face.

It's rather by accident, he could say, but Castiel knows from the rumors that the Doctor always, somehow, ends up exactly where he should be, at exactly the right time. That's how it works, always has been.

There are questions that the angel has, a great many of them, actually. But all of them fail to come to mind at the exact moment that he is spotted by the so-called madman with a box. In retrospect, he supposes some things are better left unknown.

The sighting takes place the morning after Dean tells him 'Don't ever change' with a pat on the back and one of those rare, genuine smiles of his. Castiel has been put through a long, strange night of 'end-game rituals', according to Dean, that must be taken part in before the world ends. Of course, the world is very much still going on, now, the morning after, and Castiel intends to keep it that way. However, his haste doesn't keep him from pausing just inside the frame of the hotel door before he leaves Dean there; sprawled out on the bed, still unclothed and marked with the proof of their nights activities.

"It's good to know that even angels have a weakness."

Castiel whirls, shutting the door behind him quickly, and searching out the source of the voice. Not too far away stands a man with dark hair that nearly falls into his eyes, and a brown, striped suit beneath a coat not too different from Castiel's own. His eyes are bright with mischief, body seemingly moving even though he's clearly standing still. Or leaning, as it were, against the wall outside the hotel room. His smile is wide, but friendly, and his tone not as accusing as the words might suggest. In fact, he seems relieved by his assessment.

Perhaps, Castiel muses, the revered Doctor has his own flaws, and takes comfort in the presence of that in others with the weight of great power upon them.

'Dean is my charge, nothing more.' It's what Castiel could say, and would in any other circumstance. He's not sure what gives him the urge to make the comment. Could be that he's spent too much time with the Winchesters and learned how to repress, or live in a constant state of denial. That would explain why he doesn't consider the previous night a mistake or blasphemous, but a break through.

Instead of his gut response, Castiel says simply, "Yes." It's more honest than he's been with his fellow angels in months, and certainly less complicated than the ways he's gone about expressing his feelings with Dean. Long stares and careless acts of devotion could only go so far when you're dealing with the son of a Winchester.

The Doctor smirks and pushes away from the wall. "You're a right lot more pleasant than the stone versions I've met of you guys."

"They are an unfortunately inaccurate depiction of angels." Castiel agrees, already familiar with the Weeping Angels of which the Doctor speaks. "You are shorter than described by rumor."

The doctor sags a bit, then rolls his shoulders back with a sudden rush of exuberance. "Might I ask you to show me your wings?"

Castiel considers this; positive that he should deny the request. It's not as if he hasn't broken every other rule there is in the book, but he always imagined that Dean would be the first person, non-celestial, that he showed his wings to. As an alien, or whatever he is, it's probably right to say that the Doctor could be considered celestial, so Castiel _could_ make an exception in his case.

"You will want to stand back." Castiel says in answer, moving away from the door. "And be ready to shield your eyes. I am able to tone down the full effect their appearance have in the human world, but it may still be…overwhelming. Even to you."

The Doctor steps back to a careful distance, practically bouncing on his heels with excitement. He wears all the clothes and posture of a gentleman, but Castiel can see, even through his show of cheerfulness that he's been slowly worn down by the amount of losses he's taken over time. Something like this, a small show, and not entirely too much effort on Castiel's part, would be a treat to the Doctor. A man who always tries to do the right thing, and is endlessly amazed and enchanted by the living world around him. What's one small favor for a person so selfless?

The extension of Castiel's wings is, in his reduced size, still roughly the length of a charter bus. About fifteen feet per wing, with the small expanse of his back in-between. It takes more effort than it did before to pull them out. Castiel is no longer accustomed to using them for their intended purpose. Which is not simply popping in and out of rooms, or jumping relatively small distances across the globe, in comparison to his travels across the wide expanse of heaven.

Castiel's eyes don't fall shut, and he doesn't make a strained face as someone might expect when he brings them out. It's not like he's pushing the wings through the skin of his vessel, though it sometimes feels that way when they're hidden for too long. In truth, he's summoning them into existence from the plane on which they're hidden, to the material world of Earth.

Each onyx feather and delicate bone that forms his wings must be created in all its grand detail, with every fracture from battle and small flaws from age and continued use. When they are free to the air, spreading slowly from his back as they appear, Castiel has the face of someone let loose from a great burden. He's relieved, lighter somehow, and more like himself than he could ever be with them put away, hidden from human eyes. Regardless, he has to hold back, and their true glory will only ever be witnessed by those that bear the wings themselves, or the one whom originally created them.

"Absolutely magnificent! Marvelous, my friend, every feather!" The doctor is beaming, cheek to cheek, his eyes wide to take in every detail. He's practically on his toes in effort to stay back, with all the signs of wanting to get nearer. Now that the wings are out, Castiel is more comfortable with the level at which he maintains their effect on others, so he nods to tell the Doctor he may come over.

Carefully, against his obvious wish to run over, the Doctor approaches with measured steps, and his mouth falls open as he comes within a few feet. "The wings of an actual angel. Will you look at that."

Castiel feels the hints of a smile build at the edges of his mouth. It's the first time in a while that anybody has been so openly amazed by him like this. The thrill of pride is a welcome surprise when he spots that the Doctor's knees are shaking, his balance unsteady. This man has seen so many unthinkable wonders, and still, he falters in the simple showing of an angel's wings in the lowest form they can be shown, through a vessel that hardly captures Castiel's true beauty.

"You are pleased." Castiel states, almost dumbly, and reaches out to rest a hand on the Doctor's shoulder. "You may touch them, if you wish."

The Doctor's eyes shoot toward his face, and then back to the arc of Castiel's left wing. "You would let me?"

"Be gentle." Castiel warns, squeezing the Doctor's shoulder slightly before letting go. When the tentative pressure of the Doctor's hand brushes the feathers of his wing, Castiel shudders, despite his attempts not to do so. It's rare that anyone other than himself makes contact with his wings, and generally, it would be a very intimate act if they did. For example, if he were to let Dean touch his wings, it would be something he wouldn't want to do in public. Castiel quivers violently at the thought.

The Doctor jerks back his hand at Castiel's sudden shiver, then grins, knowing and unafraid. "I can't possibly thank you enough for this opportunity, but I really must be going."

Understanding that the Doctor is a busy man, Castiel nods and exhales, allowing his wings to fade away again, to their hidden state.

As he watches the Doctor leave, step into his famous blue box, Castiel can't help but smile. A true smile; one that makes him think of the one Dean wore the night before, loose and sated, somehow careless in the face of the world's demise. Amidst it all, Castiel is glad that he's found someone that understands him.

Just because you're powerful beyond compare, it doesn't mean you can't appreciate the things this world has to offer.

Castiel is not the only one that would give _everything_ just for the sake of one human. For the right human; the one that he loves.


End file.
